


Change Never Comes Easy

by groaar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Animal Death, Cruelty, Gen, Ramsay is his own warning, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3604092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groaar/pseuds/groaar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life with Ramsay Bolton is always unpredictable, but it turns out that the life of Ramsay Bolton is not without its surprises, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Change Never Comes Easy

The girl was crying hysterically as Ramsay stripped her off the dirty, tattered rags she referred to as clothes. She begged for him to stop, pleaded with him to have mercy even though she should know better by now. He could almost smell the fear she projected, and he relished in the feeling of empowerment it instilled in him.  
  
In an attempt to shield herself the girl moved her slender hands so that they would cover as much of her nakedness as was possible. Ramsay cocked his head to the side and stared at her for a while, contemplating her actions. She should have learnt that this kind of behaviour would only land her in deeper trouble; yet, she was defying his rules – unspoken though they were.  
  
She was feisty, promising even.  She shoved some spirit, which was always a good thing in prey. It usually made things more fun. Excitement, lust and anticipation mingled in Ramsay’s head, making him feel slightly lightheaded. It made his mouth water.  
  
Still, Ramsay wouldn’t tolerate defiance.

One by one he pried those small fingers away from her body. Not too violently because wounded animals made bad prey, but hard enough to remind the bitch of her place. He poked her breasts playfully, watching with fascination as his fingers sunk into her soft, slightly sunburnt skin, but left it at that. He’d have a chance to claim what was his tomorrow. He could settle with less tonight. He could wait.  

”Master”

The voice, barely more than a whisper, was one Ramsay immediately recognised as Reek’s. However, he thought it but a fragment of his imagination – Reek knew better than to speak unless spoken to – and paid little attention to it. He had the girl to worry about, and sending her on her way was his firstmost priority. This was no time for distractions.

“Look here,” he growled, and caught the girl’s chin in his hand, giving her little choice but to follow his orders.

He grabbed the piece of cloth that the girl had been dressed in, and dangled it in front of here eyes for a short moment before throwing it to his dogs. One simple command and they had shredded the piece of cotton cloth into nothing. Ramsay could feel the girl’s light body trembling against the rough skin of his hands, and it sent shivers of pleasure dancing up and down his spine.   

“This is what will happen to you if you don’t run,” he instructed the girl, grinned, and let her go.

She stumbled around for a while, and for a moment it looked like her legs would not carry her. Eventually, although still shaking worse than a dry leaf rustled by icy winter winds, she found her balance. The girl glanced at him, then to the open door, then back at him again. Her chestnut brown eyes were filled with uncertainty, and she reminded him much of the fawn he had shot the other day. With any luck she’d prove just as challenging to hunt, too.

The seconds ticked by, but the girl didn’t move – she didn’t run – and it did not take long for Ramsay to grow impatient. He snarled at her, the sound coming from deep within his throat, and threw himself at the girl much like he imagined his dogs would do tomorrow. He could see her eyes grow wide with dread as she, taking a few wobbling steps backwards, flinched out of his reach. The next moment she was running for the door; running towards her freedom – towards her death.

Ramsay stood quietly for a while, looking after the girl even though she was already long gone. He was still excited for tomorrows hunt, but now that he had been left alone the feeling of anticipation, which had burnt as hot as molten iron in the pit of his stomach, was slowly cooling until nothing but a heap of smoking ashes was all that remained. He felt empty now that the satisfaction was gone, and the long, dark shadows crawling along the kennel walls did nothing to brighten his mood. He almost regretted his decision to let the girl slip away without having a little bit of fun with her first, but there was little to do about it now.

It was only after the sun had almost set and the shadows had flooded most of the room that Ramsay noticed the miserably disfigured person standing, fidgeting, in a corner of the kennel. He knew then that his imagination had not been playing him any tricks, and the rage in him flared up instantaneously. It felt good. It filled the emptiness with warmth – the wrong kind, but warmth nonetheless.

“My sweet, little Reek,” he started, slowly making his way towards the bony creature, “I thought you had learnt to respect your master.”

Ramsay broke out into a toothy sneer when he saw his creature’s dark eyes glace with panic. _Good_.

Reek fell to the floor before him, snivelling and begging, evidently aware of that he had acted out of place. He was down on all four, his repentant, dark eyes cast on the ground, and his pale lips were moving tirelessly without pause; chanting incoherent apologies and showering Ramsay with praise. This, however, mattered little now. Ramsay knew it was nothing but ingrained behaviour and empty words. Reek would say anything to escape punishment. This was how Reek functioned. Even though begging never helped, his little obedient dog would always, always, consort to it. But Ramsay didn’t mind, rather he found it oddly pleasing. To know that he held such power over a living being that it would never question him – always submit to him, no matter how it was treated – was exhilarating.

He aimed a kick at Reek’s face, the tip of his boot landing on the bony cheek. The impact sent the puny excuse for a man flying headfirst into the stone wall. To his credit Reek didn’t cry out in pain. He moaned and sucked in a sharp breath, but other than that he did not make its suffering known.

Ramsay crouched by the smelly body that was sprawled across the floor, and pressed his lips ever so close to Reek’s ear.“ Reek, good dogs don’t bark unless they have a good reason,” he mused in his most sweet, velvety voice, threading his fingers through Reek’s thin and greasy hair, “and you are a good dog, so what is it?”

Reek shook his head, denying he ever had had a valid reason, but Ramsay was no fool. “Come now, Reek” he encourage. His voice may have been dripping with honey, but his body spoke a different language. The grey hair that had hung limp and loose against the bony face was now pulled taunt, and with every passing second Ramsay increased the force with which he pulled at it; daring his creature to lie again.

Reek held out for a good while, and it wasn’t until Ramsay started fumbling for his knife that the creature breathed out his answer. The voice in which he talked was slurred and tinted with fear, but Ramsay heard every world as clear as blue sky on a sunny day. 

“Your father… He means to kill you, master.”

Ramsay laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and laughed until he ran out of air, and then he began clawing at the rough skin of Reek’s cheek as hard as he could. Ramsay, knowing that his blunt nails were bound to hurt more than any sharp object, couldn’t be bothered to use a knife. This creature clearly needed a painful reminder of its righteous place, and pain it would get.

How anyone dared accuse his father – the father that had named Ramsay a full-fledged Bolton – of such a crime was, without a doubt, not valuing his life enough. How this creature – _his_ Reek – could even propose anything as outrageous was beyond Ramsay. It was frustrating. That anyone, especially Reek, would even suggest that his father considered such a thing was plain mockery. It was stupid, insolent, and unbecoming.

Finally, his nails pierced the skin and sank into the soft layers of flesh beneath. It felt like plunging into an overripe fruit; sticky and squishy. And it bled, a lot. Warm and viscid liquid pooled over his hands, colouring them a deep crimson. The scent of blood, pleasantly familiar and oddly sedative, tickled the inside of his nostrils.

Ramsay took a deep breath and held it.  The stinging, irony aroma filled both his body and mind, erasing all else – the questions, the doubts, the feelings. _Everything_. All he needed was this hazy high; nothing more nothing less. It made him feel content. Reek could do that to him. Actually, no one but Reek could.                 

The wound was gaping, red and raw, and the man who wore it looked sickly pale when contrasted to the deep coppery hole in his cheek. Reek’s lips were still moving, but now they were speaking of how Reek had indeed deserved this punishment. Ramsay smiled, satisfied with himself. His handiwork was always of the best quality, but Reek, well, Reek was special. His Reek was exceptionally good and, as some sure would say, loyal to a fault. Reek would never break one of Ramsay’s rules – unspoken or not – and Ramsay decided to overlook this one slip, for now.

“Tomorrow I will hunt” Ramsay whispered, his sleety eyes steadily fixated at Reek, “me, you, and my girls.”

He pushed some of the brittle, blood-soaked hair away from Reek’s forehead, then, tilting the bruised and torn face upward, Ramsay stared at length into those deep, dark eyes. “And, Reek,” he said, unsmilingly, “when I order my dogs to rip the girl I expect them to obey, and this includes you, as well.”

Reek nodded in understanding, and Ramsay rewarded him by softly stroking the fresh cuts on the dirty cheek with his thumb. “Good dog,” he cooed, softly, playing the good master for a few more seconds before he slammed Reek’s head into the stone floor, stood up, and took his leave.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

 

\---

 

The morning air, crisp with chill, burnt in Ramsay’s lungs as he drove his horse through the forest. He was in a dreadful mood. The hunt had not lasted for more than half an hour, or so, and already Ramsay was quite sure of that he was hot on the heels of his prey. There were telltale signs of a hurried escape everywhere – footprints in the moss, broken branches, a tuft of hair – and if Ramsay made the effort he could hear sounds of dry wood snapping in the distance. The girl had seemed so promising; agile, young, and spirited, but she didn’t deliver.

The four dogs he had brought along for today were trotting anxiously around him, and Ramsay had been forced to snap at them quite a few times in order to stop them from pushing too far ahead. Jez and Red Jeyne were especially testy. They were growling at each other, and at times one of them would try to nip at Blood’s dark hind legs, which of course made the horse irritable, too. It was puffing its nostrils and dancing around sideways, warningly stomping its hooves to the ground in order to fend off the dogs.  

Reek, unable to keep up with Ramsay’s pace, was falling far behind the group. Ramsay was far too annoyed with the situation to pay his slowest, dumbest dog a single thought, and he continued pushing forward through the dense undergrowth as if Reek had never been with him in the first place. Willow and Helicent, however, would glance back at Reek from time to time, making sure that the weakest member of their pack was still there.

Not even after the girl was shot down and ripped to shreds by his dogs – just as Ramsay had shown her would happen – did the bastard’s mood improve. The hunt had been all he disliked: short, eventless, and boring. It hadn’t given him the thrill, the rush of adrenaline, which he so desperately craved. It had not in any way satisfied his needs. He spat on what was left of the girl’s mangled body and wished her soul to be trapped in this forest forever. It was good that Reek was with him, for when all else failed he could always count on Reek to brighten his mood. Sure, the creature didn’t live up to a good hunt, but it was better than nothing; better than empty, purposeless rage.

Before Ramsay even had the chance to approach Reek, though, a familiar, whooshing sound ripped him out of his thoughts. It was a noise he’d know anywhere, at any time, and in a swift motion he drew his bow and whirled around to face the attacker. It was, however, too late. The arrow had already hit its target.

One of his dogs, Jez, howled in pain. She slumped down, yelping, trying to scratch out the arrow from in-between her ribs, but it had stuck too deep. Ramsay could tell by only glancing at the wound that it was fatal; that his dog would suffer a long, painful death. All the same, there was little he could do about it now because the next arrow was already flying towards them, missing its mark by mere inches.

With the shrill whimpering of his dog ringing in his ears Ramsay rushed forward. Blinded by rage he fired arrow after arrow in rapid succession, taking little care in his aim, and it was due to pure luck that one of these arrows wound its way deep into the attacker’s right shoulder. The man cried out in pain and dropped his bow, giving Ramsay enough time to close the remaining distance between them.

“Why are you here?” he snarled, pressing his flaying knife against the man’s throat. The man only laughed, and asked Ramsay if he was blind or simply dense.

That question cost him an ear.

“Tell me,” Ramsay demanded, “now!”

“Lord Bolton’s orders, bastard” the man spluttered through the blood seeping down his face.

That answer cost him his other ear, and his nose.  
  
“You’re lying,” growled the bastard. Blood was pumping loudly in his head, yet through the buzzing he could hear a voice. _Is he really lying_ , it said, _look at his attire_. Ramsay followed the advice and the voice whispered to him, mockingly: _that is Bolton attire_ , and Ramsay knew it was.

He stabbed the man’s eyes out, for good measure. Then, he walked away.

A gurgling scream echoed through the forest as he man tumbled head first into the shrubs, hands desperately clutching at his ruined face. No one paid him any mind.

Ramsay made his way straight over to Jez. The wounded dog was still twitching on the ground, clearly in pain, and the other dogs, Reek included, were sat around her, looking helplessly at her. Ramsay joined the circle, kneeling by the dying animal, and ran his fingers through her soft, auburn fur. His chest was clenching, tight with emotions he did not know nor understand. He didn’t find them at all appealing, though, and so he pushed them out of his mind. Ramsay put the flaying knife, still clutched in his hand, to Jez’s throat, and with one swift movement he finished the job.

He stayed by the dead dog’s side for a while, petting her softly. She was still warm to his touch, and her nose was still moist; just like it had been when she had muzzled against his hand this morning. She still felt alive. He swallowed. His airways felt as if they were clogged up, and his chest as if it might explode. He couldn’t think. His head was crammed, yet simultaneously it was completely empty.

Instincts were telling him one thing though: to run. It was against his nature, but one attacker usually meant more were on their way and Ramsay knew he was in no position to fend them off right now. Part of him wanted to go back, to consult his father, but the risk involved was high – too high, perhaps.

Ramsay glanced over at Reek. The man’s bony hands were buried in brown fur, and his sombre eyes, shining like two pools of black water, were full of unfamiliar emotions. The realisation that Reek had never lied to him flitted briefly through Ramsay’s mind, but he quickly pushed the thought back out of his head. It mattered little now. It never mattered, not really.

Shaking his head Ramsay rose, brushed some dirt of his clothes, and stalked over to Blood.

All the commotion had alarmed the horse. Its eyes were dilated, and the bay hair was covered in a thick coating of sweat.  Ramsay gently rubbed the horse’s forehead, muttered a few calming words to it, and at the touch of its owner Blood grew somewhat calmer. At least calm enough to be mounted. Ramsay shot Jez one last quick look – why he did not know – before he swung himself into the saddle and kicked his horse into a trot. He whistled for his dogs to follow, and they did, even Reek.

Not long after they sat out Reek was falling behind again, and so Ramsay called out to him.

“Pick up your pace, Reek, or I swear I will leave you behind for those men to kill!”

Reek did try, Ramsay could not deny that, but he was clumsy, tripping over its own feet as he tried to move faster. It looked pathetic, hilarious even, and would it not have been for the dire situation Ramsay would have laughed at it, mocked it. Now, there was no time for such pleasantries, not if he actually wanted to keep his Reek around, and he did.

He did want to keep Reek because at the moment Reek was the only thing he knew.

The only thing left that felt familiar.

The only thing left to keep him sane.

And so Ramsay Bolton – _Ramsay Snow_ – stayed his horse and waited for his Reek to catch up.

**Author's Note:**

> Bucket loads of coffee, many hours of frustration, a few hours (approximately 1000000) spent with my nose glued to my English grammar book (because this language is so hard I just feel like giving up at times), just as many hours consulting dictionaries, and several cases of cat-related distractions later --> finally done! 
> 
> I have half a mind to continue… but I don’t know. 
> 
> I don’t think that Roose Bolton, even if he’d want to kill Ramsay, would choose this method. The idea, however, was interesting, so I decided to play around with it a little. I’m intrigued by how Ramsay would act in a situation where he’d be stripped of the safety-net and the privileges he has enjoyed (at least during the last few years of his life). I’m also curious about if and/or how this would affect his relationship – if that’s an appropriate term for it – with Reek. 
> 
> So, we shall see what becomes of this – if anything.  
> Next on my schedule, though, is my 20 page essay for school… *dies*


End file.
